Law Of The Jungle
by Featherz
Summary: Grimmjow and Ulquiorra are highly sought-after celebrities in a city where fame is everything. Is a chance encounter just that, or will it lead to something more... yes, I'm awful at summaries. Read it anyway, muahaha.
1. Collision

Yay, new story. This is set in the modern-day human world; Grimmjow and Ulquiorra are highly sought-after celebrities in a city where fame is everything. Is a chance encounter just that, or will it lead to something more... I suck at summaries. ;D

Rated for Grimmjow's appalling language (but we love him anyway). Rating may go up in future chapters.

Apologies for the title, I spent ages desperately brainstorming and beating my head against the desk from frustration. It may be changed later on. :P

* * *

A single tear welled up in Halle's deep green eye, shivering for a moment on her blonde lashes before rolling fatly down her cheek.

"Wh… when will I see you again, Oliver?"

Ulquiorra cradled her face gently in his pale hands, gazing at the dark woman as if he was blind to all else.

"I don't know." He said bravely, allowing just a fraction of a tremor to creep into his voice. "But, darling, remember. You are my life, my world, my shining star in the sky. And I _will_ come back for you."

"Aaaaand- cut."

The two actors dropped each other immediately, the lovelorn expressions falling from their faces like leaves from an autumn tree.

"Let's call that a day, guys." The director continued, tipping forward his wide-brimmed hat as he pulled on his flamboyantly patterned pink jacket. That jacket screamed for attention, thought Ulquiorra disapprovingly. "Hey," The man said hopefully, "Anyone up for a drink?"

There was a general cheer of assent from all but Halle and Ulquiorra. The former excused herself politely and headed straight for her dressing room, while the latter nodded in dismissal and began to make his way towards the car park where his bicycle was chained to a rail.

Ulquiorra was not given to emotional behaviour. It was unusual to see him display an interest, rare to provoke him to anger and – as far as anyone knew – impossible to wrest a genuine smile from that coolly detached face. The only time one would see Ulquiorra smile was on the nation's screens; for all his stoicism, he was an amazingly talented actor, seeming to flick a switch and light up from within as the clapperboard clacked shut. The expression on his face, however, when he reached his bike and found it surrounded by a gaggle of giggling fan girls, could best be described as irritation, shown only by a faint creasing of his eyebrows and a slight downward turn of his thin lips.

"What," He merely said, deceptively calmly, "are you doing?"

The pitch of the screaming intensified as the girls noticed him.

"Oh my God!"

"It's him, it's really him!"

"He's even cuter than on TV!"

The boldest of the girls stepped forward, causing an eruption of nudges and excited babbling to arise from her cohorts. She had long black hair pulled up in high pigtails, and was wearing an outfit that - he noted with distaste - left little to the imagination. "Ulquiorra, I'm your biggest fan! Could I have a photo?"

Green eyes regarded her coldly. "No."

"But-"

"If I ever see you here again, I will report you for trespassing. Do you understand me?"

The actor made his way to his bicycle – the girls parting before him like the Red Sea – and pedalled off, ignoring the disappointed wails from behind. Maybe it was time to quit the job, for anonymity's sake. It was rather nice not to be recognised and screeched at in the middle of the street.

He reached a red light and promptly stopped, staring absent-mindedly at a huge billboard featuring a handsome male model with spiky black hair. _The Espada Talent Agency_, the small print at the bottom read. The agency that Ulquiorra belonged to. And that model staring soulfully at the camera was Aaron, one of his co-workers and easily the most arrogant man for miles around.

Actually, reflected Ulquiorra, the Espada – as the elite celebrities hand-picked by the Agency and propelled to fame were commonly known – seemed to rule this city. More of their familiar faces stared out at him wherever he went; catwalk model Nel posed provocatively on the front of a magazine, the lead singer - known only as Grimmjow – of rock band King Zero yelled back at thousands of screaming fans from all the TV screens in a shop window and (perhaps, most disconcertingly) his own well-known features gazed back at him from a large advert on the side of a passing bus, advertising the latest film he had acted in. Some generic romance movie, this time playing opposite a vapid airhead called Alyssa or Melissa or Vanessa. The film was unimportant to Ulquiorra; what mattered was that the audience went horribly sentimental and gooey-eyed over it, and the money continued to roll in.

"Go, you freaking idiot!" A man yelled from a wound-down car window, glaring nastily in his direction. The traffic light was still red. Ulquiorra turned his head slowly to look at the man with a face of stone, quashing the road rage before it could blossom into homicidal intent. The first signals of recognition began to bloom on the driver's face. "Hey… aren't you…"

Ulquiorra swiftly pedalled off as the light switched to green, inwardly rather irritated. From insanely screaming fans to bloodthirsty drivers, this wasn't the best day he had had.

He turned off down the side street that led indirectly to his apartment. Or rather, attempted to turn off. The flashy blue sports car that materialised from around the corner and rocketed down the street towards him had other ideas. It must have been doing at least twice the speed limit, and Ulquiorra could do nothing but watch dispassionately as it hurtled on a collision course straight towards his bicycle. And straight towards him. _What a pitiful death_, he thought glumly, _crushed by some rich kid in his parents' car who probably never even bothered to take driving lessons_. There was a deafening screech of tyres, a blinding white glare of headlights and a horrible chalk-down-the-blackboard scraping sound as the car swerved violently and grazed along the wall, before smashing into an inconveniently placed lamppost and grinding to a smoking halt.

--

"And I- can't- diiiiie!" Grimmjow howled into the microphone, giving the strings of his electric guitar a final emphatic twang as the song screeched to an end. Oh, this was the life. This was the fucking life.

"Great work!" Some blond guy – managing director or some shit like that – applauded, sidling into the room. "Only thing is, we might need to cut out that last chord, if that's… ok…" He trailed off as Grimmjow came closer, standing a head shorter than the rock singer.

"Dude," The blue-haired man said with supreme disdain, "That was the best part of the whole fuckin' song."

The director quailed. "Well- er, yes, whatever you think is best, of course… er…" He found himself speaking to the closed door as Grimmjow left abruptly, already bored with the guy's stuttering.

Ed, the drummer of King Zero, pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "Don't take it personally, man."

"Yeah," The backing singer with long silky blond hair added, "He does that a lot."

"Huh?" The bass guitarist looked up from where he'd been tuning his instrument.

"Never mind, Roy." The vocalist sighed. The fat bodyguard standing by the door was silent.

Outside, Grimmjow strode over to his car, examining it minutely for even the tiniest scratch or chip. This car was his darling, his baby, the top of the range Pantera that had taken the market by storm. And he was damned if he was gonna let some jerkass driver ruin her. He'd beat the shit out of anyone who even so much as glanced at her the wrong way.

Satisfied, he straightened up.

"Grimmjow!"

It was Shawlong, his personal bodyguard since forever. The guy looked pretty scrawny, but he was insanely talented at martial arts.

"You shouldn't be going home alone." Shawlong said disapprovingly, pursing his lips. Grimmjow rolled his sapphire-outlined eyes.

"Lay off, yeah? I ain't gonna get mugged overnight."

"Hm." The thin dark man still looked displeased. Jeez, he was like a freakin' mother hen.

"See ya." The singer said pointedly, slamming the door to his Pantera and settling into the smooth black leather of the seat. Man, he loved this car.

He shifted gears and drove smoothly off, foot pressing the pedal closer and closer to the floor as he picked up speed. Fuck the speed limit. That was for the suits that worked a freakin' nine to five job and had a wife and two point four kids.

"Outta the way, you dumb cow!" Grimmjow yelled at a woman driver who wasn't paying attention. God, they should be banned.

His foot was almost touching the floor as his car roared along the street, eating up the tarmac in a rush of hungry blue metal. He took the corner in a screech of wheels and rounded the next one even more violently. Didn't matter, no one ever drove on these little side stree-

Oh, shit.

Grimmjow stared in slowly dawning horror at the lone cyclist directly in his path. He could continue as he was and smash into the guy at seventy miles an hour. Or he could swerve and risk harming his beautiful Pantera. The decision wasn't even worth thinking about, in his mind. Unfortunately the law wouldn't agree with him on this one. At the last possible moment Grimmjow yanked the steering wheel violently to the right, yowling in frustration and preparing himself for the worst.

* * *

First chapter! What did you think? It gets better. Hah. Spot the hidden Bleach characters - it's really not very difficult.

Next chapter - Grimmjow isn't too happy about the destruction of his car.

R&R!

~Featherz


	2. Confrontation

Second chapter ^w^

Grimmjow and Ulquiorra have... a total personality clash. To put it lightly. xD

* * *

Ulquiorra saw no point in panicking. Panicking, he reasoned, was futile and a waste of time, and more likely to cause a second casualty than not. Therefore he had never bothered to panic and instead had developed the talent of keeping a cool head in a sticky situation, dealing with the incident calmly and with rationale.

He did this now, first methodically checking doors, windows and street corners to make sure there were no lurking paparazzi waiting to catch him in any incriminating act that might merit a feature in a tabloid. Satisfied that the street was clear, the green-eyed man cautiously began to approach the dormant sports car. The unshattered headlight glinted balefully at him; it gave him a creeping feeling of unease. He stopped dead in his tracks, his shoe crunching on a shard of broken glass. That was a mistake.

The next moment a blue hell-fiend was flying at him, yelling something incomprehensible with a lot of swear words involved. Ulquiorra narrowed his eyes and remained deliberately motionless. He refused to move for any idiotic road hog, no matter how loud they were.

Concentrating, he could decipher the man's furious ranting.

"…my car, you fuckin' idiot! The hell have you done!? My _car_! D'you know how much this cost! I'm gonna-"

Ulquiorra cut him off abruptly, as the man's identity presented itself. It had been difficult to tell when he had been storming towards him with a string of profanities pouring from his lips.

"Grimmjow." He said coolly.

"Well done, genius," The singer sneered, "You want a gold star?"

"You do not recognise me?" It was only to be expected. The man was too self-absorbed to see anything two inches beyond his own nose. The answer was a predictable negative.

"If you think I remember every fan that gives me freakin' love notes or shit like that, _buddy_, you've got another thing coming."

It would appear that a slight jog of the memory was required.

"My name is Ulquiorra Schiffer."

An indifferent pause. "So?"

Ulquiorra took a deep breath, counting to five in his head before he replied. "I am an actor. I work for the same agency as you, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow looked at him, bright blue eyes glinting dangerously. "Am I s'posed to give a shit? You're still gonna pay up for my car."

"No."

"…The hell did you say!?"

"You heard me, Grimmjow. The fault was yours alone."

Enraged, Grimmjow made to grab Ulquiorra's shoulder. The latter reacted quickly; one deft flip and the other man was sprawled on the ground, cursing loudly.

"What'd you just do, man? That's freakin' assault!"

"I have studied judo." Ulquiorra said calmly. "It was self-defence."

The singer sneered. "Judo's for pussies."

"Which is why you are lying on the road at this moment in time."

Grimmjow's eyes narrowed as he lithely got to his feet. "You gettin' smart with me?"

"No." Ulquiorra said truthfully.

In one hard jerk of a movement, his adversary turned on his heel and strode off down the middle of the street.

"Where are you going, Grimmjow?"

"To find some jackass who'll move my goddamn car, _Ulquiorra_!"

--

Grimmjow was pissed. He'd narrowly avoided slamming head-first into the dashboard when his Pantera crunched into the tall street light – good thing he'd actually listened to Shawlong for once in a blue moon and worn his seatbelt – and now he had two tonnes of scrap metal on his hands instead of what had been a freaking expensive car.

Impatiently yanking the car door open (with difficulty, since it was severely dented) Grimmjow leaned out and inspected the damage to his beloved car. Shit! It was worse than he'd thought, the bonnet crumpled and crushed and deep gouges scraped all down one side of the body. And as for the paintwork – man, he was _not_ paying for this.

Anger rose red in front of his eyes; blindly he stormed towards the damn cyclist. He was going to make him sorry he'd ever learnt how to ride a bike.

"What the hell d'you think you were playin' at?" He yelled, his ire rising by the minute. "That was my car, you fuckin' idiot! The hell have you done!? _My car!_ D'you know how much this cost! I'm gonna-"

And then it all went downhill from there, as the guy cut him off to introduce himself. Oh, yeah, like he gave a shit about who he was. Even if he did happen to work for the same agency (he did look somewhat familiar, though Grimmjow was loath to admit it). And then Schiffer (was that his name?) refused to pay for the damage _he'd_ caused, and got all fucking aggressive on his ass to boot. Eventually growing bored with the emo fag's horribly moral outlook – or not trusting himself to not punch the guy's lights out – he turned abruptly and started to walk away.

"Where are you going, Grimmjow?"

He didn't break his pace, swaggering away into the darkness of the urban night. His voice took on a sardonic air.

"To find some jackass who'll move my goddamn car, _Ulquiorra_!"

In reality, he couldn't be bothered to do any such thing. He'd just buy an identical one. Sure, he absolutely fucking loved the car that was currently wrapped around a lamppost thirty feet away. He was also pretty certain that he'd get a hell of a lot of insurance money for it, which could go towards a duplicate. You just had to know how to play the system. And he did; oh, he did.

Having said that, it wasn't so bloody fun when he was sat on a bus home (the taxi having thrown him out unceremoniously on discovery he was a few bucks short of the fare), freezing his ass off and glaring at some underage girls that kept sending him hopeful looks. _Dream on, darlings, it ain't gonna happen._ Grimmjow leapt out with relief when the bus came to a halt.

"Home, sweet home." He muttered sarcastically under his breath, looking up at the front of the hotel that he and his band were stationed in.

At least it had a bar.

*

"Yo, Roy." Grimmjow greeted his bandmate in the hotel suite.

"'sup."

"You ever heard of some guy called Schindler… no, Schiffer? Ulquiorra Schiffer?"

The blond's jaw dropped, revealing a mouthful of nightmare teeth.

"You ain't heard of him? Jeez, Grimm, where've ya been for the past year an' a half, under a rock?" At the resultant glare, he hurriedly continued. "Schiffer's an actor. Real big round here. An he's in the Agency, same as us."

So emo boy hadn't been lying. More to the point, how the hell had he not seen him around before? He must've been more caught up in King Zero than he'd realised. Actor, huh… there was no way he couldn't afford to pay for the car. It was that damn standoffish, didn't-give-a-shit attitude of Schiffer's that really got the singer riled up. Grimmjow set his jaw, his eyes hardening to cold ice chips. He'd make that face come to life. Within a year he'd have Ulquiorra Schiffer laughing for joy, crying his little black heart out, yelling in pure untainted rage or writhing under him in ecstasy. Or maybe all four.

* * *

Next chapter - We get an insight into Ulquiorra's boring little life. xD

R&R, it's good for the soul!

~Featherz


	3. Respite

Sorry for the wait! I've started a new school year and the work has been _**intense**_. Have caught up with it now so hopefully I'll post more regularly. Thanks for being so patient! :D  


* * *

Life, Ulquiorra thought drily, was like an outrageously expensive box of chocolates. No matter how long you deliberated over your choice or how carefully you made your selection, the end result always proved to be somewhat unsatisfactory and left you wishing you had picked the one next to it or, preferably, saved your money. In this case he seemed to have chosen the unappetising praline that nobody else liked, wrapped deceptively in sparkly gold foil. He had assumed that he could work a contract with the Espada Talent Agency for a few years and then retire from the public eye, living handsomely on his substantial earnings. Instead he was dogged by fans, haunted by his own face staring out of almost every poster he passed, and seemed to have made an irritating enemy in the form of one Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, singer extraordinaire.

The green eyed actor sighed as he unlocked the door to his apartment, patting his small black Labrador absentmindedly as the dog bounded eagerly up to him.

"Hello, Momo." He said quietly. Momo licked his hand and whined a little before pattering off down the hall, her overlong claws clicking on the polished bare boards. Ulquiorra made a mental note to arrange an appointment with the veterinarian – yet another task he was burdened with.

He hadn't bought Momo in the first place; he would hardly describe himself as an animal person. He might have stretched to goldfish at the very most. No, Momo had arrived rather unexpectedly; to be more precise, his loving, doting and altogether rather stifling cousin had dumped a ball of wriggling black fur into his arms last Christmas and ordered him to give it a home. Apparently there was a photograph of his horrified face stuck somewhere in a family album. He had tolerated the puppy at first with reluctance; then learnt to live with her; and then grew used to the little weight on the end of his bed at night, before finally (although he would hesitate to admit it) growing quite attached.

There was an insistent bark from his kitchen. Sighing, Ulquiorra carefully hung his coat up and put his keys down gently on the glass coffee table in the lounge before following in Momo's footsteps to find her standing beside her empty food dish, wagging her tail.

"The prospect of a diet looms in the near future," He warned, although a small smile tugged at his lips. Momo barked hopefully, looking smug as she was rewarded with the clatter of food hitting the dish. Her owner rubbed her between the ears affectionately and straightened up to glance at the clock. Five to eight and already dark. Soon he would have to drive to and from the studio, as opposed to taking his customary bicycle ride through the streets each day. Sooner rather than later if today was anything to go by. Another unwelcome collision with an airheaded rock singer was not to be hoped for. Yet he rather liked the idea of irritating Grimmjow; call it indulging his inner child.

Back in the lounge, Ulquiorra sat down on the black leather sofa and pointed the remote control at the television, flicking rapidly through channel after channel. Trash, trash, trash, trash, trash. If he wanted to watch shallow celebrities locked inside a building swearing at each other and having sex, he would spend more time at the Agency. As for the shows like 'Charlotte's Miracle Sweet Ultra Funky Fantastic Dramatic Romantic Sadistic Erotic Exotic Athletic Guillotine Workout Routine'… this country was going to the dogs.

The television screen went blank as he pressed the off button with finality. He really, really needed a coffee. Preferably black. No sugar. Ulquiorra could be described as, at best, a caffeine addict beyond help. Two cups got him through the morning, warding off the crushing tiredness accumulated through insomnia. Another served as a pick-me-up at noon, and three more had made their slow delicious way down his throat by the time the light started to fade from the sky.

Making his way to the kitchen again, the quest for coffee left Ulquiorra staring at the single jar that was supposed to last him for the rest of the week. Hm. He'd be lucky if it lasted another day. If it came to it, it was a case of mind over matter. That, or venturing out into the unknown world of the city at night. He'd never really seen the point of staying out after dark; it was dangerous, pointless and – not to state the obvious – dark. One didn't know if there were muggers lurking around every corner. Although he could easily overpower one, or even two would-be attackers – that wasn't the point. It was a matter of pride.

Sourly, he spooned the meanest possible amount of coffee granules into a plain white mug (he wasn't one for mugs sporting hilarious slogans, or "World's Best Son") and set the water to boil, waiting with patience for the kettle's shrill whistle and pouring the boiling liquid into the cup. This addiction was one of his few vices, but one worth every last rich, steaming drop. He bought only the best brand.

Eight o'clock; time for the evening news. Back in the lounge, comfortably ensconced on the sofa with his mug of hot coffee, Ulquiorra clicked the remote once more and waited as the opening jingle played through.

"…sponsored by the Espada Talent Agency."

They really were everywhere, like a parasitic fungus spreading its roots. Not that he minded. More publicity meant more work meant more money.

The headlines were revealed to be disappointingly mundane, bringing up no topics of interest whatsoever. He switched the television off in disgust as a documentary about the successful rock bands today, primarily King Zero, began. He had zero – no pun intended – interest in Grimmjow's band, no matter how many records they had sold. A better use of his time would be to read the rest of his current book on the go, Faust.

Once more, Ulquiorra considered leaving the area to live somewhere quieter and more peaceful, where he wasn't harried and harassed (although he _had_ brought it upon himself). This city was trash. He could return to his native Germany; then again, he didn't wish in the slightest to live anywhere near his large and loving extended family. Caring as they were, more than a few hours in their chattering presence brought on a painful migraine for which a dark room and plenty of painkillers were required. He preferred to be at least a country away from them at all times. Preferably on a different continent, to make tracking him down that bit more confusing.

No, he would stay. He would grin and bear it - metaphorically, of course. Ulquiorra didn't grin.

He would stay just until his career was beginning to wane and then reconsider his options. Just as long as he didn't run into any more trouble, particularly trouble in the form of a homicidal rock singer.

He might have spoken too soon.

* * *

More of a filler chapter, this one - to give you more of an insight into dear Ulqui's life. More action next chappie!

R&R, my gorgeous and beautiful readers. You know you want to. *shiny pleading eyes*

~Featherz


	4. Clash

You couldn't go wrong if you had a plan, right?

Grimmjow had a plan. Highly detailed and cunningly thought out, it involved the complicated strategy of going to a club, getting pissed out of his head, possibly having sex with a random stranger and waking up in his own hotel room, no memory of how he got back there lingering in his mind. Usually one of his bodyguards – whichever of them was feeling the most patient that night – came and found him and dragged him up however many flights of stairs it was to his room.

It was a foolproof plan.

Slinging a dark jacket on – it was November, after all – the blue-haired man sauntered down the stairs, trying out his smouldering I'm-going-to-make-love-to-you look on a passing hotel maid. The girl blushed deeply and hurried on with the pile of linen she was clutching, looking back coyly over her shoulder as she went. Yeah, he still had it. A bellboy stuttered a hasty greeting as Grimmjow swaggered past; God, you'd think these people would get used to seeing anyone even remotely famous around with the Espada Talent Agency lording it over the city.

His footsteps followed an often-trodden path down the street to his current favourite nightclub, Las Noches. This club was the shit, known for its brilliant DJs, sexy dancers and handy back exit in case of police raids. It was another well-known fact that there was a running trade in cocaine among the less reputable people who frequented Las Noches – hence the back exit.

The bouncers let him in without question – he was a regular. Grimmjow stood at the entrance for a brief moment, letting the pounding music wash over him and scoping the club for any lookers. Jeez. There were more hot women here than seemed fair. Guys too, come to think of it. Grimmjow didn't care who he fucked, so long as they were moderately attractive and the sex was great.

Shoving his way through the press of gyrating bodies, the singer finally reached the bar at the far side of the room.

"Yo!" He yelled to the bartender against the thud of the music. Grimmjow was a familiar face in this club; a bottle of beer, his usual order, was promptly uncapped and slid along the bar to him. He had a reasonably high tolerance for alcohol, born from many years of drinking the stuff. As such, it took at least two bottles to get him moderately drunk.

Taking a long swig, he leaned back against the bar and surveyed the dance floor once more. He could go for those ice blonde twins… or the guy with the snakebite piercings… nah. Tonight, Grimmjow wanted something more like… more like… that. His roving eyes lit upon a slim girl with heavily layered black hair falling softly around her face, dancing alone and looking straight at him with a come-hither gleam in her very green eyes.

Never one to beat around the bush, the blue-haired man's first words to the girl when he reached her were, "You're fuckin' gorgeous."

"You're not bad yourself." She shot back in a surprisingly husky voice. She was a little shorter than him, and her skin was very white under the rapidly flashing strobe lights; she definitely resembled somebody he knew, but he couldn't place it. Not that he gave a damn, anyway.

Grimmjow moved closer to her, placing one tanned hand possessively on her hip as they swayed to the beat.

"What d'you say we take this elsewhere?" He murmured in her ear, his hot breath blowing gently on her neck. That always got 'em. He drew back to give her the look he had practiced earlier on the hotel maid, watching smugly as it took full effect. The dark-haired girl licked her lips, looking coyly up at him through mascara-thickened lashes.

"I'd like that."

There was a tap on his shoulder; irritated, the singer half-turned, only to meet with a hard punch to the jaw that sent him reeling backwards into his would-be partner for the night.

"The fuck, man!" Grimmjow howled, staggering upright and away from the girl. His assailant was a freakishly tall guy with long dark greasy hair and, for reasons known only to himself, a white eyepatch covering the upper left side of his face. With a shock of recognition, Grimmjow realised it was another guy from the Espada (as it was commonly known). Noah Jackson. Violent, perverted, and very, very drunk.

"Oi," Jackson slurred, "Get the fuck off my girl."

"_Your_ girl?" Grimmjow sneered back nastily, squaring up to the man. He'd never liked him, and even less so when he was stoned.

"Yeah." The dark haired man said simply.

"For god's sake, Noah, I dumped you weeks ago!" The girl burst out from behind the pair of adversaries, anger making her voice shrill and high-pitched. "Get over yourself and go get a life!"

Huh. So it was a case of sour grapes, was it. Chattering onlookers had already started to gather round the drama, always interested in any scraps of gossip to keep them afloat on the sea of popularity.

"Baby, we're over when I say we're over." Jackson grinned widely, casting her a lecherous leer. "And as for you… reckon I'm gonna have to teach you a little lesson." He said, this time addressing Grimmjow. The rock star's eyes narrowed in a manner that indicated revenge was imminent; nobody talked down to him like that and kept their face the way it was.

Before Jackson could move Grimmjow launched himself at the taller man, taking him by surprise and tackling him to the floor. The crowd cheered him on as he landed punch after punch in Jackson's face, all the while wearing a psychotic grin that had even the men around him recoiling in fear.

"Hey- _hey!_"

Suddenly he was grabbed by the arms and hauled off by two large bouncers; the fight hadn't gone unnoticed by security.

--

"And stay out!" The manager hollered three minutes later, slamming the back door to Las Noches with a resounding crash. Grimmjow glowered at the wall, beyond pissed off. Oh, yeah, he had to go and choose the chick with all the emotional baggage.

…Shit. He'd just realised who the girl reminded him of. She was Ulquiorra Schiffer with tits, for God's sake.

The door was banged open again and this time Noah Jackson was propelled out, staggering into the dustbins with a series of loud clanging and clattering. The dark-haired man slid down to lie in a twitching heap, not seeming to know or care that Grimmjow was watching him closely. The latter snorted in disgust.

"Tch! Can't even hold your drink prop'ly."

"Shurrup." The crumpled pile on the floor rasped. "I'mma… fucking kill ya, you sonuvva…"

"I can see why that chick dumped you," Grimmjow taunted, the adrenaline coursing through his veins overriding the tiny voice in his brain that said this might not be a good idea. Ignoring Jackson's unintelligible growl of a response, he continued, "Although, if I was her… I'd have kicked you out the moment I saw your tiny dick."

"I said, shut the fuck up!" Jackson roared, suddenly shooting to his feet and lurching forwards with surprising accuracy. The yellow light from the streetlamp above glinted off something lurking in his hand; oh, fucking fantastic, he had a knife. Grimmjow had to pick a fight with what was probably the one guy in the club that carried a switchblade knife around in his pocket. He wasn't about to try and tackle this psycho with bare hands. Reluctantly, feeling his dignity being shredded to pieces like a cat claws a cushion, Grimmjow turned on his heel and ran for his life.

* * *

Please don't kill me for the ridiculously overdue update? Just maim me, I can take the maiming. D: I'M SORRY, REAL LIFE AND LAZINESS GOT ON TOP OF ME. _ HOWEVER I have the next three chapters bullet pointed and planned out ready to write. Can't promise a super quick update but it should be less than the disgraceful three-or-so months it's taken me to post this one.

Anyway, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Consider this my Xmas present to you all, my beautiful gorgeous readers.

You're even more attractive if you review. XD

~Featherz


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